


Relucent

by Percie_Jean



Category: Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Angst, Artist Jack Kelly, Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Extended Metaphors, introspective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:27:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26362654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Percie_Jean/pseuds/Percie_Jean
Summary: Jack sketched when he was happy and painted when he was sad, and sometimes it was the reverse, and sometimes it wasn’t either of those things at all.(Originally posted on Fanfiction.net)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	Relucent

******I.** He couldn't remember when he'd started sketching. His drawings had always been a part of his life, a scribble on a scrap of paper, a detail dashed off in a moment stolen away when he should have been working but  _ ached _ to create instead - dozens and dozens of sketches of anything and everything: the face of his brother, caught in mid-grin, the ships drifting in off the harbor, an apple he'd pilfered from the grocer's stand…anything and everything, he'd draw it and try to catch a bit of its light beneath his dirt-smudged fingers.

* * *

**II.** But not all is light, and he learns this soon enough, learns it in a place where the darkness drowns. He keeps on sketching...but shadows now press in against the light.

* * *

**III.** The first time he puts paint to canvas, it is dark - dark in the theater, and dark within. He fumbles his way through dimly-lit backstage corridors, makes his way towards the single spotlight shining on stage. There sit the canvas and drop cloth, exactly where Miss Medda said they would be. She'd seen his sketches - his tiny scraps of light and shadow - and had suggested that he try, of all things,  _ painting _ . She had a backdrop that needed rendering for a show later that week; he could use the paints and brushes already there if he wanted. He'd shrugged off the idea at first, too morose to care. But when she'd pressed him again, letting him know that she'd leave the light on before she locked up and left for the night, a tiny spark of interest had flared to life and refused to let him rest, so instead of trying to sleep, he'd headed for the stage. 

Now, as he hesitantly picks up a brush and pries open the lid of the nearest paint can, he feels a glimmer of hope grow inside him.

* * *

**IV.** His stub of a pencil dashes lightly across the page, and he feels light, too, as form and figure emerge beneath his fingers, all softness and brilliance and half-lidded gaze. She is lovely and cannot be captured by even his quickest attempts, but he manages to keep just a bit of her there on the paper, smudging out gentle curves, stippling freckles, blending beauty by turns 'till the newsprint (expendable, coarse and commonplace) is illuminated with  _ her _ . And there's light in his eyes too, playful and roguish and all sorts of  _ impossible _ as he sets the sketch down on the chair and meets her questioning look for just a moment before ducking quickly out of sight.

* * *

**V.** The picture comes to him almost instantly as he paints in broad strokes, everything bold and dark and heavy and  _ crushing, _ and he wishes that somehow the largeness of the image taking form could drown out the memories and the screams in his head that haunt him. He is insignificant and small and powerless and he  _ knows it _ , knows that he - and the ones struggling beneath the descending weight - are doomed to have their light snuffed out, their voices silenced. 

He's a professional word-monger...but tonight words fail him, and all he can do is pour his anguish onto the canvas.

* * *

**VI.** The palette smears are like bruises, mottled purples and blues. He dabs at them angrily, blending until the colors bleed out and he finds the perfect shade of mauve where sky and summit meet, tranquil and serene in mocking juxtaposition to the turbulence within - darkness waiting, darkness calling. Just as he's about to press paint to picture, a voice - then several - break through the shadows.

He does not want to hear them at first. He wants to  _ paint,  _ to disappear, to stay within the world of shadow because it's his only way of escape and reality has wearied him to near-despair. But the voices call with increasing persistence, incisive and passionate and innocent and so full of hope that his hands are shaking as he tries again to paint. He does not want to hear them.

But finally...he does. And slowly, slowly, something flares to life inside of him again. It's not the kind of light that drives out darkness, a beacon blazing-strong and bright, not the kind of light he'd thought he was or that he'd hoped to be. But maybe it's enough, just enough…and so he sets his palette down and steps towards them, a tiny flicker turning towards the light and holding out against the darkness - the darkness that has yet to overcome.

**Author's Note:**

> This one shot was inspired by the thought that Jack might have used his “natural aptitude” as a way of dealing with the hardships he faced. Several of the scenes depicted above are meant to correspond with the specific pieces of art Jack creates in the musical (the two backdrops for Medda, the sketch of Katherine, the cartoon of Pulitzer’s foot crushing the newsies, etc.). 
> 
> Thanks for reading - please let me know what you thought of this!


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